The Fisher Sullivan Enigma
by Tin-Can-Hit-man
Summary: Nathan Drake and Victor Sullivan, are no strangers to mysteries and adventures. But when Nathan is discovered dead in his apartment. Sully refuses to believe the official ruling of suicide. Digging deeper into his best friends work, he discovers evidence that Drake was murdered to keep a secrete buried.
1. Chapter 1

Sidney, Australia

October 2012

Nathan's phone call was late.

Victor Sullivan sat on the park bench, gazing out at the thunderheads rolling across the city, threatening rain that seemed reluctant to come. The previously picturesque view of the city had been transformed – the brightness of day seized by premature night, twisted into a dreamscape of encroaching darkness and shifting shadows.

Fitting, Sully thought. Still, his best friend surely had good reason to be late. He and Elena had been settling down and had just moved in together. Nathan couldn't be expected to put everything on hold just to make a phone call.

Yet here Sully was, waiting, sitting on a park bench because it allowed him to be alone with his thoughts, the vista of light and shadow, and his non-ringing phone.

He yawned. His eyes, normally a deep shade of brown but prone to change colors, were currently on the gray side of the spectrum. He didn't know if he was ready. No, strike that - he simply wasn't ready. Nathan was like a brother to him, his best friend, his… He couldn't really put the connection they shared into words. Years of life together, traveling around the world together, exploring, escaping from sticky situations, a lot of sticky situations. Despite their differences , despite Nathan's desire to get out from under Sully's constant mentorship, theirs was an uncommon bond, a bond that had grown in depth and breadth for all their lives.

Until now.

Sully didn't have a problem with Elena. Quite to the contrary, he liked her very much. She and Nathan made a good match. She, like Drake, had a brilliant mind and was intensely curios about… everything. Elena adored Nathan and patiently helped him to keep the rest of his life on track. She was also very bright, and, though their fields of interest differed, they challenged and spurred one another on to bigger and better things.

The truth was, they made a great couple. And that made it even harder for Sully. He took a deep breath. Blew it out as a sigh. He raised his eyes heavenward, but no answers presented themselves. Angry black storm clouds rumbled across the sky, turning day into night and blotting out the sun like a fire blanket.

For as long as Sully could remember, Nathan Drake had been his student, his friend. And vice versa. the one constant in his life was about to do the unthinkable. Change.

Sully didn't hear the phone until a few seconds into the ring-tone. He knew who it was without looking at the screen. Deep breath. He answered with a grunt.

"Sorry, Sully." Nathan's words came quickly, betraying his excitement. "Did I wake you up?"

"No, no." Remain nonchalant. Don't sound needy. Nobody wants that.

"So you want the long version or the short?"

"Both." Neither.

"Short version: it's official we're now living together!"

"Of course you are. No surprise about that." None whatsoever.

Nathan proceeded to tell Sully the long version. He clenched his jaw as he listened, joy and betrayal, excitement and loneliness, clashing in his brain.

"I'm really happy for you." Lie. Well, half0lie.

"Thanks. You okay? You sound-"

"Tired." Nip it "Just tired."

"Sorry. Hey, I wanted to tell you my research is really taking off."

Sully straightened himself up a little. "How so?"

"Hot lead. You still coming out next month? I'll tell you all about it then."

"Of course I'm coming. Why's it gotta wait until then, though?"

A tense silence on the other end. "Sully, I…I think I've stumbled onto something big."

"And your worried rival historians around the world are listening in even now with their sophisticated network monitoring systems that just about everyone has these days?"

"Not academia, Sully. Bigger than that."

Sully scoffed, half-smiling. "Oh, geez."

Silence.

Sully swallowed. " Wait you're being serious?"

"When you visit, Sully. All will be divulged. Of this you have my word."

"Alright mister Dramatic. I'll hold you to that. It had better live up to all the hype."

"It will, Sully. And so much more."

Sully raised his eyebrows. The wonder child had done it again. He stymied his jealousy for the time being, instead choosing to focus on the excitement of discovery that seemed to be rekindled. Maybe the good old days weren't gone after all.

Nathan cited the lateness of the hour, and they said their goodbyes


	2. Chapter 2

Near Falluja, Iraq

August 2012

Squinting into the late-morning sun, Sergeant Wayne Wilkins was doing his best to maintain his composure. The driver of the Humvee, Sergeant Price, was flying down the artillery-pocked road at a ridiculous speed, adeptly maneuvering the vehicle around potholes and debris as though he were playing a video game. But this was a real war zone, and there were no extra lives, no second chances here. And yet, despite all that, and despite the sweltering heat that already claimed the day, the atmosphere inside the Humvee was, for the most part, jovial.

"We're goin' home, baby!" Corporal Sedaris, a scruffy – at least by military standards – young soldier crooned from the front passenger seat. He had fashioned himself as somewhat of a bad boy, his longer-than- regulation hair and permanent three-days-growth bread mirroring his jocular and sometimes rebellious personality. It was his AC/DC mix CD that was playing on the boom box he'd brought along. He took a swig of illegal Iraqi moonshine from his non-regulation flask to celebrate.

"Dude, you're gonna be out of the country in just a few hours and you can't even wait that long to drink?" came the voice of Private Jenkins from behind Sedaris. The baby of the group at only twenty-two years of age, Jenkins's congenial and caring nature had long endeared him to Wayne. Raised by his grandmother on the streets of downtown Detroit, Jenkins had found God at an early age, and, under the guiding hand of a church deacon with a heart for impoverished youth, he had grown into a man full of compassion, rather than the drugs and desperation that filled many of his peers.

"You sure you don't want some, bro?" Sedaris offered, dandling the flask just out of reach for Jenkins.

"Dude leave him alone. And you'd better not have any of that on your breath when we get to the airstrip or I'm disowning your ass," Price said. Price was the soldier with the most experience in the car, but after fifteen years of service and eight tours of duty, his face still retained the boyish charm that had made him popular with the ladies back in high school. A leader by example, Price had won Wayne's admiration and respect within days of their first meeting. Price, Jenkins, and even good old Sedaris definitely deserved this vacation. If only fate would be so kind.

"Eh, whatever," Sedaris said. "We're almost home free." He took another swig, audibly relishing it for emphasis. "Mmmm, mmm, mmm. Dee-lish."

Price bounced the right side of the vehicle through a pothole, jarring Sedaris and Jenkins in their seats.

Sorry 'bout that, Jenkins," Price said with a mischievous smile, glancing at Sedaris through the rear-view mirror.

All but oblivious to the what was going on around him, Wayne stared out the windshield, the rocks and road rolling by too fast, too fast. The faster they traveled, the sooner they arrived, and the closer they got to that moment, the more Wayne felt his resolve slipping away.

"Hey Wilkins, what's eating you?"

The words barely registered, and he hadn't the slightest idea who had said them. Wayne continued to look at the road ahead with distant eyes, his mind too wracked with gilt and doubt, with sorrow and confusion, for any one emotion to emerge dominant and betray itself in his countenance.

"You carsick, dude?" Jenkins asked.

Wayne thought a moment. "Yeah," he replied, only half glancing at his compatriot, his friend. "Carsick."

Price eased off the accelerator, lifting his eyes to the reflection of Wayne in his rearview. "Sorry about the driving, Wilkins. You know, just excited and all."

Wayne met his eyes in the mirror. "It's alright," he mumbled. His eyes drifted back to the road, the worst place for his eyes to be, carsick or not, but he just couldn't keep from starring. The road being eaten up, the miles ticking away, the time vanishing before his eyes. The twisted shell of an old roadside bomb – a blackened and rust-ravaged corpse that had claimed human lives, and automotive suicide bomber – lay one side. The road itself was buckled and broken. The gray the yellow, the sand and dirt, the desolation of the desert and the horrors of war stretched out as an endless canvas around him. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout for Price to stop, to turn around. To tell them the truth, to tell them that he couldn't go through with it, that they needed to turn around now. But it was too late for that. Powerful machinery was already turning, and he had passed the point of no return long ago.

It was too late.

"Aww, the hell…" Price groaned. A trio of Humvees – two of which were parked across the road – and four human figures appeared on the horizon. The markings indicated they were American, so they didn't have to worry about insurgents, at least, but it was still a momentary hitch. Price motioned for Sedaris to kill the music, the scruffy Corporal complying with a scowl.

"They'd better not be trying to rope us in for more time," Sedaris said through his teeth. "I've got a flight to Vegas to catch."

"They wouldn't do that, would they?" Jenkins asked, his voice slightly less confident than he'd intended. "Grab us right as we're going on leave?"

"Sure they would, kid," Sedaris said. "Screw you over every chance they get."

"Sedaris, cool it, already," Price ordered. "It's probably just a routine checkpoint. The airfield's just a few klicks away. All they need is for some terrorists to get in there with a truck full of explosives and blow up the whole damn field."

"Whatever." Sedaris muttered, slumping down in his seat. From his seat, Wayne watched as the road block grew closer and closer, the vehicle decelerating as the men standing sentinel came into focus. Three of them brandished M16s their expressions blank despite the beads of sweat that trickled down their faces. The fourth man, older and with more decorations on his uniform,, approached Price's window with a clipboard in hand.

"Morning, soldier," came the booming voice of the man outside, the insignia on his uniform marking him as a Colonel. "Brown" read the fatigue's name tape. His face was red with sunburn, his hair graying at the temples. Yet, despite the man getting on in years, the way he held himself, the way he spoke, positively exuded power and confidence. It the three men standing at attention in the blistering heat were any indication, his leadership skills were impressive.

"Morning, Colonel," Price said. Brown offered a tight lipped smile in response, then pulled out a folded sheet of paper. In the rearview mirror, Wayne saw Price's features tighten. More orders, Price must've been thinking. Sedaris scowled, keeping his eyes on the ground.

"I'm looking for a Sergeant Wayne Wilkins?" Six eyes turned toward Wayne, followed by the pair belonging to Colonel Brown. Wayne slowly turned his face to the Colonel, wishing he were anywhere else but here.

"I'm Wilkins."

"Glad we got you before you left the country. We got word that you'd be leaving by this route, so we had to close it off. Sorry about the trouble. I've got orders here for a special debriefing for you. You need to come with me."

Wayne stared mournfully at his comrades, his motions trancelike, the look in his eyes more distant than usual. He swallowed and slowly opened his door and climbed out of the Humvee, his feet sinking in the loose sand.

"You should be on the next plane out of here, Wilkins," the Colonel added. "Just a few loose ends to tie up."

Another soldier exited from the back of one of the Humvees and walked briskly toward Colonel Brown.

"Ah, I'd almost forgotten." The Colonel motioned toward the approaching soldier. "this is Private Jameson. He has an emergency meeting at the airfield in about thirty minutes. And since you've got a seat open now, I need you to take Jameson to the airfield." Price nodded in tacit consent. Sedaris remain silent, face forward, a guilty half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Jenkins looked at Wayne with genuine concern in his eyes. Wayne saw all of them but could not meet any of their eyes. Not anymore.

For a brief moment, as Jameson moved to enter the Humvee, the Private and Wayne stood next to each other. Jameson was about Wayne's height. About his build. In fact, their bone structures were almost identical. but everyone in the vehicle, seemed to have their thought occupied with what had just happened and failed to notice the similarity.

The similarity did not escape Wayne.

"Look us up when you get back, man," Price offered out the window. " We'll have to get a few beers together. Maybe catch a few games."

"I'll save you a spot at my table in Vegas, dude. Have a few cocktails…. maybe a few cocktail waitresses," Sedaris added with a coarse laugh, leaning towards Price's open window.

"take care of yourself, brother," Jenkins said. Wayne had crossed and burned his bridges. There was no going back.

With one final glance at Wayne standing alongside the Colonel, Price gunned the engine, Sedaris cranked up the stereo, and the Humvee zoomed down the road, whoops of elation mixing with the sound of AC/DC, fading as they sped off into the distance.

Wayne kept his eyes trained on the vehicle as it entered a small valley between the rising hills on either side. Suddenly, from positions hidden amongst the war-torn landscape, four plumes of smoke converged from all angles upon the vehicle, followed by four deafening explosions, all traces of '80s metal dying away and being replaced with the screams of his former comrades, nearly drowned out by the concussions but echoing in Wayne's ears nonetheless.

"Again," came the voice at his side, a two-way radio raised to the Colonel's lips. Four more plumes. Four more explosions. No more screams. Wayne wanted to look away, but knew he couldn't. He had seen some truly horrible things in his time in the military. Two tours in Afghanistan, two in Iraq. He had seen his fellow soldiers die before his eyes. But never had he been responsible for the deaths of his brothers-in-arms. And certainly never like this.

Images came flooding back to him: Price's clam leadership, his pictures of his twin five-year-old boys and their mother on vacation at the beach and waving to Daddy; Sedaris's gruff but generally good-natured attitude, his ambition to some day – when he finally got out of service – write for Saturday Night Live; Jenkin's compassion the he bestowed on his comrades.

Despite the heat of the desert sun, growing warmer by the minute, and the raging heat of the flames the engulfed the bodies of his former friends, the look in Waynes eyes, if anything, grew colder.

"Well, it's official," the Colonel said, squinting at his watch, then extending his hand to Wayne. "Wayne Wilkins is dead."

Reluctantly, Wayne took the Colonel's hand, struggling to keep his stoic resolve in place.

"Agent Wilkins," The Colonel said, looking firmly at Wayne as he shook hands, "_illuminatus_."


	3. Chapter 3

Nathan Drake awoke with a start. Eyes wide open, seeing nothing but darkness. Ears straining for unknown sounds that would not betray themselves. He sat bolt upright, the bedsprings creaking beneath him, and he turned his head from side to side as he took in the scene, trying to orient himself.

He was still in his bedroom, in his bed, under the covers. Ambient light from street lamps toward the front of his apartment building spilled through the window blinds and into the room – a dim, soft light, slatted with the blinds' shadow, giving the room an ethereal, ghostly glow. He held his breath as he listened for whatever sound might have pulled him so abruptly from his slumber. A dog yipped in the distance. The slow, steady drip of the toilet filling. A police siren wailed in some distant part of the city, just reaching his ears. And… nothing else. Yip, drip, wail, and nothing else but silence. All mundane, far too ordinary to disturb his sleep. But something had.

What had he been dreaming before he had awoken? A nightmare or some particularly exciting dream that had been the impetus for his sudden awakening? Perhaps it was merely something in the dream world that had disturbed his slumber? No, he would have remembered that dream, or the last part of it at least, upon returning to his conscious mind. But he remembered nothing of his dreams tonight.

He yawned, an open-jawed eye-scruncher of a yawn. He had to get some more sleep. He reached over to his nightstand and fumbled for his phone, his eyes still trying hard to focus. Laying hands upon it, he pressed a button to bring up the backlighting. 1:47. He'd only been asleep two hours? As he set the phone back on the nightstand, its light still providing additional illumination, every muscle in Nathan's body suddenly tensed. He could not explain why, for no audio, visual, or other sensory stimulus seemed to have caused it.

His mind immediately flashed back a burning Château, a year ago. He and Sully were running past flames that threatened to engulf them. A preternatural tingle of fear permeated both their bodies. They looked at one another, the ash obscuring their faces but able to see each other, nonetheless. Only by sheer luck and teamwork had they been able to escape with their lives.

What Drake had sensed that day was death approaching. He hadn't felt that way before or since – until now. And that frightened him tremendously.

Finally he heard something. A creak coming from the living room. It could have been the building settling, water in the pipes, a noise from a different apartment, a figment of his imagination, or any number of other things, but Nathan was knew better. He looked around his room, eyes darting from place to place in search of something, anything, to use as a weapon. Of course, he thought as his eyes settled on his choice.

His Beretta 92FS had served him well over the years, and he prayed it would continue to serve him well. Actually, as long as he was praying, he wished that whatever agent of death seemed to be approaching would just disappear without the need for an altercation.

Nathan slipped from his covers as quietly as he could, and padded barefoot on the threadbare carpet to the gun's case atop a small bookshelf. Drake crouched behind his still-closed bedroom door and waited. And waited. Not daring to turn on a light to check his watch, he had no idea how much time had passed since he had first grabbed the gun and begun waiting by the door Had it been one minute or twenty? The creak could have been any number of things, and his inscrutable sense of death approaching… could that have simply been the product of an overtaxed mind? He hadn't heard anything else since that solitary creak, and the muscles in his legs were growing sore, his feet numb from crouching.

Drake stood up, slowly, and exhaled deeply but quietly. He waited for another minute or three, gripping the Beretta loosely by his side. Nothing.

He had just lifted his right foot to begin walking back to bed when he heard the doorknob begin to turn. He froze. Drew his foot back, and stood at the ready. Instantly his mind flashed through a dozen possible plans. The door began to open toward Nathan. A shadowy torso, started to snake into his bedroom. The shadow was halfway through the gap between the door and the frame when Nathan shoved the door with all his might, shouting a "Yah!" as he slammed into it. The shadow grunted and slumped slightly against the doorframe, but seemed to quickly recover.

"What do you want?" Nathan screamed as he slammed into the door a second time. Nathan immediately followed up with a blow from the hilt of his pistol grip to the intruder's head. The shadow fell to the ground. "What do you want?" He screamed again.

The shadow rolled over onto its back. A pair of black eyes, blazing with indignation. Then a third eye, black with a slim silver iris, appeared near the shadow's chest, pointing right at Nathan's head.

"Solo esto," came the things voice at last. Only this.

The third eye's pupil flashed white. The sharp sound of a report.

And then – nothing but darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

Sampling the local cuisine at one of the finest outdoor cafes in Australia, generally did good things to clear Sully's mind. This morning, it was working, but not quite as well' as he'd hoped.

He found himself half-wishing he'd taken the first part if his vacation in Europe, or maybe somewhere in the Middle East. Maybe stop by and see how Cutter's doing, anything to take his mind off the Nathan-Elena issue. Instead, for the first chunk of his vacation, Sully found himself in Australia. Given, it was a beautiful country, and he was enjoying every bit of it. But the natural beauty, the company of friends, even the sorority sisters from the previous night – four attractive and convivial friends from UCLA spending their term break here in Sidney – hadn't managed to cheer him up. His sleep was sporadic at best, and now, as he took a bite into his omelet, taking in the sights and sounds of this magnificent part of the city, his brain was still fixated on the problem.

Sully knew, deep down, that his bond, his friendship with Nathan, wasn't going anywhere. Come hell or high water, they would always be tight. It was impossible to go through what they had together and not be. But that didn't change the fact that, since Elena and Nathan had gotten married, Nathan seemed to have much less time for Sully.

As he motioned for a Waiter to bring him his check, he heard a familiar tune emanating from his shirt pocket. The Indiana Jones theme song. Nathan's ringtone. He missed Drake, and there was no guarantee that he'd still be able to talk if he waited till later. Drake seemed to be incommunicado a lot these days, and the ten-hour time difference that separated them right now didn't help. Sully waited a few moments, trying to play it cool.

"Sully?" came a soft voice as soon as he'd answered. Not Nathan's, female. Sounded like Elena, but… different.

"Elena? That you?"

Silence. Labored breathing. Sniffles.

Sully furrowed his brow. "Elena?"

"He's dead, Sully."

He huffed a nervous, disbelieving laugh. "What? What're you talking about? Did Nathan put you up to this?"

A deep high-pitched intake of breath from the other end. "Oh God. Nathan's dead, Sully. He's gone."

Sully's head was suddenly filled with helium, light and compressed all at once.

No

No no no no

Not possible.

His head rolled back, eyes fixed on the unforgiving blue sky, staring but not seeing. The rising sun, warming his skin until just a few moments earlier, had turned cold and empty. Sobs and undecipherable entreaties continued to emanate from the phone Sully held in his tenuous grasp, but all he could hear were the people around him, talking, about things that now seems unimportant given his current situation. Now transformed from an enjoyable bit of atmosphere to an all-consuming wall of noise.

All-consuming. Everything Sully had been worried about regarding himself and his best friend now seemed pretty, ridiculous. Marriage wouldn't have changed anything, but this…

Sully just sat there, dazed, as the phone finally slipped from his grasp, partially shattering the screen as it hit the concrete ground. He had been mistaken, he realized. Most things, "high water" included, wouldn't have been able to change his friendship with Nathan. But "hell" had come, and it had changed everything.


	5. Chapter 5

Washington, D.C.

The view out Sully's window was dismally sunny. The daylight, the fluffy white clouds, and the shimmering waters of the Chesapeake taunted him as the plane began its final approach into Dulles. Crossing nine time zones, the International Date Line, and the equator was generally enough to screw with a person's mental psyche, but Sully's had been screwed up long before he ever set foot on the plane.

Nathan. Dead.

He had called Elena back at Los Angeles International Airport, halfway through his trip from Sidney. Told her he was coming to Washington. For the Funeral. For Nathan. For her. And for Sully himself.

He felt immeasurably guilty about his jealousy now. And for the distance he had put between himself and his friend these past months. Not that he blamed himself for Nate's death. Not really, anyway.

The phone call to Elena had raised more questions than answers, and his mind was already full of unanswerable enigmas. But what Elena had told him was particularly suspicious. He prayed it was just emotion on Elena's part, but he was far from confident that would be the case.

The whole thing just kept getting stranger and stranger. If what she said was the truth… well, Sully didn't want to think about what that would mean. He had boarded the plane and found a window seat to hide himself in. Shortly after boarding, his seatmate – a middle-aged German businessman bristling with Teutonic efficiency – had asked Sully if he was okay.

"My best friend just died," came Sully's terse reply. The man muttered an uncomfortable apology and didn't bother Sully for the remainder of the flight. And now, so many hours and time zones later, the plane was at last descending toward Washington D.C. Sully had come in search of answers, of closure, yet he had the unmistakable feeling that things would get far worse before they got better.

If they ever got better.

He swallowed as the cityscape below grew in detail. He couldn't be selfish with his feelings here. Somehow, he had to pull himself together, for Elena.

And for Drake.

Fifteen minutes later, the jet touched down on the tarmac at Dulles International. Sully continued to stare out the window, watching the baggage handlers and ground traffic controllers going about their business. Just another day in life. Buisness as usual.

The plane taxied to its gate, and the other passengers began to unload their belongings from the overhead bins. Sully took a deep breath. Journey of a thousand miles. One step at a time. After most of his fellow passengers had filtered out, Sully grabbed his carry-on from the overhead compartment and filed down the aisle to the exit, nodding a forced half-smile to the pilots and flight attendants who met the exhausted passengers at the door.

He drifted through the terminal, the barrage of advertising posters and duty-free signs passing by unnoticed. He walked as though in a trance, bumping into people and being jostled in return as he trudged blindly through the terminal. His body was in one place, his mind somewhere else entirely. Through passport control, through the baggage claim, through customs, and on toward the exit.

Joel, Ellie, Troy Baker, Ashley Johnson; the placards with waiting drivers or hosts went on and on. None bore the name "Victor Sullivan." Sully wasn't surprised, as he hadn't arranged for anyone to pick him up from the airport, but he was somewhat disappointed nonetheless. His sense of aloneness increased in seeing all these people waiting to greet, wine, dine. and just be with people whom they've never met before. They had company; he was alone.

Then a familiar face, not bearing a placard but simply a somber, grateful countenance pointed in Sully's direction, appeared near the exit. At the sight, Sully smiled.

It was Elena. Her hair, slightly less perfectly styled than usual, framed a face both familiar and not. Her eyes were rimmed in red, her normally porcelain complexion tear-stained and ruddy, her lips free from lipstick and faintly tremulous. Still beautiful, but broken, like a war-torn cathedral. He hadn't told her when he was arriving, just that he'd call her once he was in town. How she had discovered his flight information, he had no idea. But he was glad she had.

"Elena," Sully said in a soft voice as he reached for her, dropping his bags and wrapping his arms around her. She responded with an equally strong embrace. She began sobbing into his shirt, and he held her even tighter. The touch of mutual sorrow and mourning, reminded Sully that, no matter how hard everything could get, life went on.

Elena nestled into his chest – small, alone, and scared. Her best friend and lover was gone, and everything she'd known and believed in was suddenly in danger of being devoured by fear and anguish. Sully vowed right then, in this embrace, that he would do what he could to help her through this crisis, playing the protective brother role that he'd never officially have with her.

"Sully," Elena said, loosening her grip on Sully and looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes. "How are you doing?"

"Honestly? I have no idea. I think I'm just on automatic right now. The shock stage of grief or whatever."

"You mean 'denial'?"

"Yeah, that one." Sully took a deep breath. "What about you?"

Her face tensed up like she was fighting back a flood of tears. Sully tried – unsuccessfully – to hug the tears away.

She sighed as she buried her face into his chest. "I'm glad you're here."

"I'm glad you're here, too. I'm still reeling. God knows I would have probably forgotten to hail a cab."

Elena let out a little grunt of a laugh. They stood in silence, immune to the hustle and bustle of commuters around them.

"So what now?" She asked.

"I'm famished. What time is it anyway?"

"A little past nine. Breakfast at my place?"

"Sounds like a plan." Sully nodded thoughtfully, though a real plan for where to go from here was nowhere in sight. But, he reflected, even though his life may be in turmoil, he at least had some solid company along for the ride.


	6. Chapter 6

Langley, Virginia

In a small corner of land officially allotted by the federal government to the CIA, the headquarters to one of the most mysterious secret societies sat unassumingly, just another building lost in a much larger complex. The concrete-and-mirrored-glass facade bore no sign or other indication as to what the building housed, as even the privileged few who were granted free reign to explore the campus of the CIA's headquarters were not allowed inside this building. Fewer than a dozen people in the entire country, not including the organization's operatives and staff, knew of the organization's existence or purpose. The clearance required even to set foot inside the building was exclusive to those specifically granted license by the Director.

Exiting from his black Mercedes sedan, a well-built Latino man, clad in a black double-breasted suit and sporting wraparound sunglasses, his dark hair shining in the sunlight, headed toward the small, two-story building. Though his head remained set on his shoulders, facing forward as he walked at a brisk pace toward his destination, his eyes swept from side to side beneath his dark sunglasses, scanning his surroundings as he always did. No matter where he was, no matter what he was doing. His job, Enrique Ramirez had found, was more than just a job; it consumed your whole life. Which, he realized, was fitting considering how his employer quite literally had taken his old life, as fire consumes the phoenix, and rebirthed him from the smoldering ashes of his staged death.

He climbed the half-dozen stairs to the front doors, his sweeping eyes noting the chewing gum stuck underneath the left-hand rail, and ticking off another day in his mind that maintenance had neglected to clean it off. Enrique was glad the maintenance guys weren't responsible for the more important parts of the operation. As it was, the Organizations fate, and thus the fate of the nation, was in much more able hands – hands like his.

As the only child of first-generation American immigrants from Honduras, Enrique Ramirez had a rough childhood. The inner city of Los Angeles and the cycle of poverty that afflicted so many of his peers plagued his upbringing, but it was his father, who he feared the most. When Enrique was fourteen, he had come home to another of his father's drunken rants, the paper-thin walls of the apartment ensuring that the family's dirty laundry was no secret to their equally despondent neighbors. His father was in the kitchen with Enrique's mother, Luisa. Normally, his mother would try to clam him down, to placate him somehow until he sobered up. To yell back would only infuriate him further, and that was when he turned violent, as both Enrique and Luisa had found out more times than they could count. On this day, however, Luisa neither yelled nor placated. The voice that Enrique heard as he entered the house was fearful, pleading as though for her very life. And as he discovered when he approached the kitchen, he realized this was, in fact, the case.

His back to the entrance to the kitchen, his father stood over the crumpled body of Enrique's mother. Luisa's blue housedress was splattered with the crimson that leaked from her nose and mouth. Attempting to curl into a fetal position, she was shaking with fear and with the onset of shock. And his father continued to yell, punctuating his hateful words with kicks to the shins, arms, and face.

Enrique didn't remember picking up the long cutting knife from the counter; it was just there, in his clenched fist, ready to help him dispense justice. His father was so consumed by his drunken fury that he didn't even notice Enrique com up behind him until the knife was already driven into his spine. The man whirled in response, flailing about to defend against his son, but Enrique stabbed him again and again. After his father had finally fallen to the ground in a bloody, dead heap, Enrique finally dropped to his knees beside his mother. She looked at Enrique through blackened eyes that were already beginning to swell shut. Her lips seemed to form the word "why" as she exhaled a soundless bubble of blood from her mouth. Whether that questioning word was directed at him or his father, Enrique never had been able to decide.

Luisa died from the internal bleeding on the way to the hospital. His father had been dead before the paramedics even showed up. Enrique Ramirez, fourteen years old, was alone in the world.

After an investigation into the affair, the authorities decided not to pursue charges against the teenager. Months of counseling and years of revolving door foster families followed for Enrique. Social workers and guidance counselors described him as somber, angry, and lacking direction. But the day he turned eighteen, he discovered the direction he was destined for: the armed services.

When Enrique joined the United States Army in the build up to NATO's invasion of Yugoslavia in 1999, he immediately stood out as a formidable soldier. Fearless and cunning, his instincts on the ground would often lead him to improvise changes to his missions – changes that always either granted surprisingly successful results or avoided the massive casualties that the ill-conceived original plan would have incurred. Even his senior squad members listened to his advice with an open mind, usually opting to follow the rookie soldier. But when one of his improvised missions took a turn for the worse, forcing him to separate from his squad and find his own way back through enemy lines to base camp, he got his first taste of operating solo. No squad mates' backs to watch, no predefined mission parameters, a license to kill, and a lot of bad guys to use that license on. Not only did he make it back to base camp alive, but he also managed to kill seventeen of the enemy by himself: with only an M4, a pistol, one extra clip of rifle ammo, and a knife. The last four kills, apparently, had been made after he had run out of ammo, and judging by stories that circulated later on, the families of the deceased would have had no chance of holding open casket funerals.

He had risen quickly within the ranks, being put on special assignments, and eventually, due to his loner tendencies and his ability to make operational magic happen when given a long leash, he was assigned solo assassination missions: taking out high-profile or tactical targets as a splinter cell – for the United States neither condones nor partakes in assassinations of foreign leaders… officially, at least – backed up only by minimal reconnaissance and intelligence members with whom he rarely interacted, save for the occasional radio contact. He came to like it that way. Just him and his target. His guidance counselor back in high school would have said that he was channeling his anger at his dead father toward these surrogates, the enemy combatants he so efficiently dispatched, but Enrique didn't buy into that. He was simply good at killing people who needed to be killed. Very, very good.

Enrique slid his plain white entry card through the reader next to the door – a door that, like the rest of the building, appeared to be made of mirrored glass, but was in fact constructed of two inches of steel, with the glass merely covering its exterior. Entering the building, Enrique removed his sunglasses and glanced at each of the five closed circuit cameras. On the keypad to the right of a heavy steel door, he punched in the 8-digit code, prompting the pad to slid back into the wall, then up, revealing another console with a small camera lens, a microphone, and a large LCD touch-pad. He pressed his right palm to the touch-pad, a read light-bar recorded his fingerprints, handprint, and pulse – in case someone might try to use the hand of a dead agent to gain access. He enunciated his agent identification number into the microphone, and centered his left eye in front of the camera lens, which image-captured his retina.

When the security computer had checked the pass codes and biometric data against the agent files in the system, verifying that he was indeed supposed to be in the building, a small green light lit up. A buzz emanated from the door indicating it was unlocked, rushing to push open the door before the lock reactivated – and before he had to go through the whole process again - Enrique entered the brightly lit headquarters of the Illuminati.

Some people found the security measures to be a bit overkill, but not Enrique. He was glad for anything that would protect this great nation of his from the treacherous subversives who would see its downfall. And he was proud to be an important cog in that powerful machine. He turned a corner, walked to the end of the stark, tile-floored, white-painted concrete hallway and stopped. Lingering, he stared at the gray steel door, which displayed a copper nameplate bearing the single word: Director. He had always relished being summoned before the man who held this office. Harrison Greer was the father he never had, the mentor and leader he had always needed, and Ramirez had always been his golden child. But things with Greer lately had been… different somehow. Ramirez took a breath and knocked twice on the door.

"Enter," came the gruff reply from within. Ramirez did so.

Enrique had heard that you could tell a lot about a person by the way they decorated their "space," be it their home, office, or even the interior of their car. The centerpiece of the office was a shiny aluminum desk about the size of a pool table; a desktop computer, a legal-sized pad of paper, a pencil cup, and a Civil War-era cannonball, were all that graced its top. Three framed pictures hung behind the desk. Other than the portraits, the walls were whitewashed and unadorned. No nonsense, no superfluous distractions. Ramirez liked that dedication, that single-mindedness that Greer, as his mentor, instilled in him. The only features in the room other than the desk were the two filing cabinets located on the left wall, and a three-foot-long bomb shell that stood in one corner behind the desk. No one within the organization, save Greer himself, really knew if it was a real, live bomb or not. When Ramirez had once inquired, Greer told him that it was a reminder of the explosive nature of the secret they were sitting on. Like the bomb's unknown danger potential, each subject slated for elimination, given time and freedom to pursue things further, might never discover enough to really pose a threat. But, Greer would finish the metaphor, is it really worth the risk?

Harrison Greer was hunched over his desk, flipping through some documents in a manila folder. His piercing gray eyes turned toward the door. His tanned face sat on a muscular neck. His thick head of brown hair belied his forty-eight years of age, the salt-and pepper at the temples and the wrinkles around his eyes the only indication of his age. His body was that of a weightlifter, tugging at the seams of his gray suit.

"Ramirez," Greer said as he placed the file on the desk and stood up. Being five inches shorter, Ramirez, had long foster the joke, privately of course, that Greer was someone he 'looked up to'. "Have a seat."

Ramirez eased himself into the chair opposite the desk. The director adjusted the folder on his desk, folded his hands, and fixed Ramirez with a stare.

"Ramirez, last night's mission," Greer pursed his lips, as if the next words held an acrid distastefulness. "It may have been premature."

Ramirez raised an eyebrow but remained silent, his hand folded in his lap.

"I don't want to say anything else until I know more, but that's where I need you again." Greer took a deep breath. "Apparently Drake had a journal that he kept at home. He may have kept his most sensitive discoveries there."

"I never saw a journal when I was there, or I would have grabbed it." Ramirez made a face. "Why didn't anyone pick up on it before?"

"Apparently he made elaborate steps to hide it. Cautious, I suppose, especially after he realized what he'd stumbled across. The fact of the matter is I need you to get that journal. Find it and bring it back."

"Sir, permission to speak freely?"

"Granted."

"Are you okay?" Ramirez tilted his head to the side "I mean, you seem a little-"

"Distracted?"

Ramirez nodded. "Perhaps."

Greer leaned forward over his desk. "You know the feeling you get when your lottery ticket matches the first five numbers in the Mega Lottery? Your incredulous at your luck and tingling with anticipation, waiting for the Powerball to come up?"

"Not personally, but I can imagine."

"We may have a winning lottery ticket on our hands, Ramirez." Greer jabbed a finger at the Intel lying on his desk, still locking eyes with Enrique. "And this journal may be our Powerball. Go get it."


	7. Chapter 7

**First off, I'm sooooo sorry I took so long to update this. It seems I had a really bad case of writers block. But I'm back and ready to update this fanfic regularly again! **

Washington D.C

Some things in life never seemed to change. Vacations were planned and canceled; engagements made and terminated; brothers and husband's killed. But the omnipresent golden arches of McDonalds were always around.

Sullivan was now free of his luggage – he and Elena had dropped his bags off at her apartment, then walked the five blocks nearest of the ubiquitous restaurants in the Washington Metro area. The breakfast rush was tapering off, and Elena grabbed a booth while Sully ordered their food. Five minutes later, Sully returned with two sausage-egg-and-cheese biscuits, two orders of hash browns, a coffee, and a Coke.

"Breakfast of champions," Sully announced as he set the food on the table.

Elena stared at him. "Uh huh."

"Eat up," he urged as he grabbed a biscuit from the tray.

Elena took a hash brown from the tray and began to pick at it, putting the morsels in her mouth in slow, detached movements. Sully was halfway through his biscuit – he hadn't even realized how hungry he had been – when he noticed Elena's demeanor.

"Not hungry?"

"Hungry." Elena dropped her hash brown onto the tray

"Just no appetite."

"Elena you gotta eat. If we're gonna get through this, we're gonna have to keep our strength up. Emotionally and mentally we're shot, but if we start wasting away physically…" He let the thought hang in the air between them. Hoping it would give her some impetus to keep pushing on. But, as Sully knew all too well, it was damned hard.

"I know. I just…" She drifted off. An uncomfortable silence filled the void.

Sully looked at his biscuit, then back at Elena. "You want to talk about it?"

"God, Sully, it was horrible." Her words tumbled out in an avalanche of emotion. "I was coming back with the last of my stuff. We were supposed to drive to the airport. Sending my husband off on a big adventure. But when I got to the apartment, he didn't answer. The apartment was quiet, and the peephole was dark. I figured he had gotten another ride, or perhaps overslept, but he would have let me know if he didn't need me to pick him up, and he never would miss this trip. I tried calling his cell, but there was no answer. And I heard his ringtone from inside the apartment. I thought he might be in the shower or something, so I used my key to get in."

Sully raised his eyebrows and took a long pull of air. All this was too much for him, but regardless, it was where they were. And as distasteful as the story's ending was sure to be, Elena needed to tell it. And Sully needed to hear it.

"But everything was wrong," she continued breathlessly, as though the story had been kept inside her for too long and now was forcing itself out. "It was too dark, like some supernatural shadow had been draped over the room. I called his name, making my way toward the bedroom, and then gagged on a scent I'd never smelt before. I wanted to run away, just flee and never look back. But I couldn't. So I went to the bedroom. Forced myself not to gag as the smell became stronger. I opened the door and.. His head… so much blood. Blood everywhere." She took a few quick heavy breaths, the composed herself and continued. "The police are calling suicide, but-"

"But no freaking way," Sully finished her sentence through a mouthful of sausage, egg, and biscuit.

Elena snorted a quick laugh despite herself, which quickly gave way to the prevailing frown. "Yeah, no way."

"The don't even know Nathan so they didn't factor that into their official assessment." Sully exhaled sharply through his nose. "So what evidence pointed the cops to a conclusion of suicide?"

"They say there was no sign of a struggle, no sign of forced entry, no evidence of anyone else inside the apartment. And the gun was fired through the…" She paused, cringing.

"Take your time."

"No, no, I'm fine. The gun was fired from under his jaw through his…" She looked like she was about to vomit, then regained her composure. "…through his brain."

Sully made a face. "Not Nathan."

"No, Sully. Not Nathan at all. Especially with everything that was going right in his life. He was really stoked about the new adventure he was planning. Some real breakthrough that was supposed to make his career." She looked down at her hands resting on the table. "And of course there was me…"

Sully tilted his head as Elena, fixing her with a compassionate gaze. "There still is you, Elena."

"Yeah, I know, I know." Elena raised her eyes to Sully, looking as though on the verge of tears. "Geez, Sully, how in the world are you holding up like this."

"I'm not. My jet lag is probably disguising how I'm feeling. Believe me, I'm pretty screwed up right now." Sully exhaled a shuddering breath and took a bite out of his hash brown.

Elena placed her hand on Sully's arm. "Well, I'm here now, Sully. And vice versa, I think."

"Yeah," he said, thinking guiltily of the jealousy he'd felt for her just a few days before. "Definitely." A brief pause, a silence that seemed to echo the emptiness they felt, the void Nathan had left, the absence of any sense of the future.

"So what was so interesting that he ran across?" he said, trying to change the subject to something more productive than wallowing in grief. He took another bite of his biscuit before continuing. "I mean it sounded like something that the world ought to know."

"He said he backdoored into something. In his research he stumbled across a mob-blamed shooting that happened six years ago, which didn't add up. And it led him to the threads of something much bigger. Some sort of cover up."

Sully put the remains of his biscuit down. "A cover-up? And what, some G-men killed Nathan because he was the man who knew too much?" He shook his head. "C'mon Elena, this is real life, not some video game. The government goes around spending money they don't have and covering up sex scandals, not murdering their own citizens to keep someone from publishing his allegations on a six-year-old murder charge."

Elena's face flushed. "Well, Nathan's dead, isn't he? So we're left with two options: he killed himself, or someone else did."

Sully cocked an eyebrow. "But the government?"

"I never said the government killed him. You sad that. I was just telling you what he was working on. Like you asked."

Sully looked at her, a blank expression drawn across his face. "You're right. I'm sorry. My mouth got away from me there."

"It's alright." Elena gave Sully a crooked half-smile. "We're both a little messed up right now. I think an extra dose of patience might be in order."

Sully nodded. "Sounds good. So did he say exactly what this government cover-up or whatever was supposed to be?"

"Not to me. I think he might have been a little afraid… For me at least." She chuckled softly, then fixed him with a gaze that seemed curiously cold. "He was really excited to tell you about it though. Figured you'd be proud of him. His adventuring buddy."

Sully blinked, cocked his head curiously, but the look in her eyes was gone just as soon as it had appeared. Or maybe it had never been there at all. Sully sat quietly, looking pensive as he furrowed his brow and stroked the stubble on his chin.

"What?" Elena asked. No trace of the coldness. Must've been my imagination. Sully thought. Too much, too soon.

"Can I borrow the key to Nathan's place?" Sully asked.

"Sure, but why?"

Sully pointed a thumb toward the door. "I wanna go over there and check it out. See what he was working on. Research-wise."

"Okay…" Elena reached into her pocket and withdrew her keys. "The cops cleared out pretty quick. Declared it a suicide… took him to the morgue. Cleaned up the scene, shouldn't be any issues."

"Do you want to come with? Could show me around and stuff."

Elena shook her head vigorously. "Not yet Sully. I can't go back in there just yet."


End file.
